


Counting backwards

by SincerelyChaos



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Electroconvulsive Therapy, M/M, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 18:26:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5259038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SincerelyChaos/pseuds/SincerelyChaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s futile, the counting. Still, Sherlock finds himself doing it. </p><p>(An attempt to resist unevitable chemical reactions, an electrical current and the temporary abandonment of their usual warfare.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Counting backwards

**Author's Note:**

> Possible trigger warnings for matters related to mental health issues. See tags.
> 
> (Not a native speaker, so forgive my possible misuse of The English Language. Some terminology has, however, been improved by the other brave word warriors at the Antidiogenes' Write or Die Weekend. Thank you!)

 

 

“Ten.”

The sound of his own voice. The single word sounds uncharacteristically weak, almost absorbed by the buzz of voices and movement surrounding him. There’s a tang of metal in his mouth, and he knew that it’d come, he knows the complex chemical reaction that causes the synthetic taste just as the vein in his arm begins to sting.

 

“Nine.”

It’s futile, the counting. Still he finds himself doing it.

Listening. Following the instructions.

( _“Count backwards from ten.”_ )

He does that now. Follows. Not often, but at times he finds it easier to just do as they say instead of fighting it. It’s not like it will change anything, whatever he decides to do or not do.

So occasionally, Sherlock does what he’s told to, lacking sufficient energy to fight. That is, on its own, one of those things that have caused that new, hateful expression to appear on John’s face. The look that means that he’s not sure who Sherlock is anymore. Like Sherlock was nothing but an empty shell. And that is the truth, but the truth becomes uncomfortably palpable when it’s written on John’s face instead of just crashing around in Sherlock’s mind like a bouncing ball. As long as the truth stayed there, enclosed by the shell his cranium provided, he could still pretend - if only for a second - that it might not be true.

 

“Eight.”

He could fight this. He could at least attempt. See how long he can resist the inevitable. How close to _zero_ he can come.

The air he inhales changes quality, and feels restricted. A vague pressure around his nose and mouth.

Oxygen.

His next word sounds more muted, like he’s talking with his ears covered, the word echoing back into his mouth.

 

“Seven.”

He’s no longer sure whether his eyes are open or not. There’s a blur, there’s light, but is it actual visual data, or is this just like the tang of metal?

It’s gone now. The taste in his mouth.

His mouth is gone too. He can’t feel it any longer, but he can…

 

“Six.”

It sounds distorted, just like the voices around him. It’s almost impossible to make out the words. Allowing his eyes to flutter close - so they had been open, then? - Sherlock directs his focus to the auditory data surrounding him. It’s only fragments, words blurring into each other.

_...given...check the…  ...milligrams of…_

_...almost under…_

No. Not under. Not under yet.

Not over yet.

 

“Five.”

He can’t feel his body, can’t be sure that he’s even said that one last word out loud.

He can’t be sure.

He can’t be.

He can’t.

 

***

 

The propofol concentration reaches full anaesthetic level.

Efficient hands removes the oxygen mask, separating slack jaws to insert a silicone splint. The oxygen mask is returned to its previous position while a few assertions about the EEG and the sedation level of the patient are uttered in an otherwise almost silent room.

One last assertion, then a gloved hand moves to press the rectangular button next to the EEG display.

When the button is impressed, an electric current will be delivered through the two electrodes that are positioned temporo-parietally on the patient’s scalp, inducing a tonic-clonic epileptic seizure. The seizure is hardly visible except for the changes on the EEG and a discreet spasm in his jaw and legs as the neuromuscular blocking agent prevents more pronounced muscular convulsions.

In a matter of minutes, the effects of the anaesthesia will wear off, leaving the patient sluggish but allowing him to wake up, blinking at the ceiling, unable to focus.

Unable to remain awake.

 

***

 

Waking up again, Sherlock is granted a few seconds of confusion before time is once again linear.

As he blinks his eyes open, he struggles to remember what had happened this time.

_Had there been a chase, or had he been attacked from behind? Had the suspect got away, or had John finished what Sherlock had started?_

If he could just use his voice, he would call out to anyone passing by, shout at them until someone brought John to him, needing to see for himself that John hadn’t suffered any severe injuries during their run-in with an armed robber or a desperate kidnapper. For a few seconds, he’s back in a reality where he and John are wrestling with the criminal classes instead of just fighting aimlessly, together but still alone, against the paralyzing dullness that’s gradually taking over Sherlock’s mind, reducing it to a bland battlefield where nothing could survive.

 

And in the blink of an eye, that reality dissolves, leaving him with a stinging sensation that has nothing to do with his arm. Leaving him with the dull reality of a bland recovery room and the thumping sounds of soft-soled shoes, worn by the uniformed staff attending the other patients behind the adjustable screens. His eyes are heavy and he’s tired from fighting this, tired of the worn look on John’s face as Sherlock had been wheeled into the electroconvulsive therapy unit for his fourth treatment.

It’s another kind of war than the ones they usually get themselves into. Another kind of battlefield, another kind of threat.

And they are not fighting against criminal masterminds this time, no, this time they’re fighting something far more brutal.

 

The doors to the treatment room opens and another gurney is wheeled out into the recovery room. Sherlock feels the probe on his forefinger being adjusted, cold fingers against his. A few beds away, an old man sounds confused and asks for his dog.

Sherlock’s eyes remain closed, and the cuff around his arm inflates itself automatically, his blood-pressure displayed on the monitor behind him together with the digitalised versions of his pulse and the oxygen saturation of his blood.

Counting backwards, he finds that time still moves forward.

Five more treatments. Yesterday, just before he’d finished the last of Sherlock’s food tray, John had said that he seemed to be doing somewhat better, and Sherlock wasn’t sure what that meant, so he’d let the words hang between them, dingling like something abstract, like the tang of metal, in the bleak, bare room.

 

They both miss the war.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Electroconvulsive therapy (ECT), formerly known as electroshock therapy and often referred to as shock treatment, is a psychiatric treatment in which seizures are electrically induced in patients to provide relief from psychiatric illnesses. It is the only currently used form of shock therapy in psychiatry.
> 
> ECT is often used with informed consent as a last line of intervention for major depressive disorder, mania and catatonia.
> 
> (Definition from Wikipedia)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Counting Backwards](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6654532) by [unreconstructedfangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unreconstructedfangirl/pseuds/unreconstructedfangirl)




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